The boys were unusually absorbed in a newspaper, not theirs. “Have you seen today’s People?” one of them called, new chap, blond, some forgettable name. He was already shoving it across the table at her.

“Rhodesian Independence Close to Reality?”

“Below that.”

“Horror in a Nameless Village? Bit melodramatic.”

“Amazing what some people will believe,” sneered Jim Carrington. “Listen. ‘The corrupting and fearful effect of war on otherwise decent men.’ Talk about purple prose.”

She scanned the article. “You don’t think there’s any merit to this?”

“My dear girl, you have to learn not to believe everything you read.”

She bristled. “Don’t you dear-girl me, I’ve been on the pol desk longer than you have.”

“So? You’re still paddling round the shallows, like the rest of us. Give it a rest.” He raised his glass and took a large slurp.

She looked around for support, but the others seemed happy to spectate. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a serious accusation. You don’t think it’s worth investigating?”

“So we’re meant to believe these blokes wiped out a whole village of chinks—”

“You can’t say that word any more, Jim.”

“And then covered it up—”

“I’m not sure it was ever okay, to be honest.”

“What do you care, you’re not a chink.”

“Jesus, Jim. It’s 1970.”

“So?”

“So, if you use language like that, how do I know you’re not calling me a darkie when my back’s turned?”

He flushed, and she realised belatedly that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to open that particular can of worms. Best not to know. “You lot will be in charge in a few years anyway,” he muttered, turning away. “The whip hand, Powell said. He knows what’s what.”

Everyone else at the table was suddenly very busy, bent over crosswords or rolling cigarettes. Screw you all, she thought, downing enough of her pint that it wouldn’t look abandoned. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.” Breezy as you like. She snatched up the paper and shook her hair out as she left.

The idea formed in her head as she was stomping up to Lars’s office. Stopping outside to take several deep breaths before knocking, she was pleased her “Good morning, Mr Erickson” came out calm and cheerful. He started badgering her about the copy she was supposed to be turning in, and she cheerfully assured him that yes, she had doorstepped like a pro, and it would be in on time. As she spoke, she casually draped the People across his desk. “Seen this?”

He quickly skimmed it. “Interesting. Sounds like Pinkville de nos jours.”

“You think so?”

“Could be major. Could be nothing.” But he was turning to the inside pages, snuffling for more details.

“I thought it looked important.”